We bandage our tender hearts with cast iron strips,
constricting the blood flow to our faces,
pale skin with a waining zest for life.
There is an extra shelf in our closets for home-made masks,
the masks are poorly made
and our true pale skin can be easily seen
through the cracks in our bright coloured ornaments.
It's a **** shame about our cut up hearts.
If they could heal instead of hide,
then dreamers would be the true world changers,
and love would be a possibility for us all.
But our cynacism imprisons our weak minds
in dungeons of hopelessness and pretentiousness.
Our talk traps us through regurgitated drivel,
we talk **** with loud uttering
as if our **** holds in it the secrets of the universe.
Yet in the mean time-
the very words we think will protect us from this wild wild world
expose us as fools and make us soft tarkets-
propelling us further into loneliness.
At least we live in the delusion that we are now all grown up.
Dec 10, 2009
Dec 10, 2009 at 6:47 AM UTC
We bandage our tender hearts with cast iron strips,
constricting the blood flow to our faces,
pale skin with a waining zest for life.
There is an extra shelf in our closets for home-made masks,
the masks are poorly made
and our true pale skin can be easily seen
through the cracks in our bright coloured ornaments.
It's a **** shame about our cut up hearts.
If they could heal instead of hide,
then dreamers would be the true world changers,
and love would be a possibility for us all.
But our cynacism imprisons our weak minds
in dungeons of hopelessness and pretentiousness.
Our talk traps us through regurgitated drivel,
we talk **** with loud uttering
as if our **** holds in it the secrets of the universe.
Yet in the mean time-
the very words we think will protect us from this wild wild world
expose us as fools and make us soft tarkets-
propelling us further into loneliness.
At least we live in the delusion that we are now all grown up.
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